


Doing Right By Oneself

by Belsmomaus



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode IV: A New Hope, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015), Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Bodhi centric, Bodhi finds his way, Canon Compliant, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, In a way, Lots of confusion, Not a Fix-It Story, or have tiny roles, other Star Wars characters are mentioned, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-13 23:32:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9146881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Belsmomaus/pseuds/Belsmomaus
Summary: It had been a mistake to listen to Galen. A mistake to come to Saw Gerrera. A terrible, terrible mistake to think that the Resistance would keep him safe. That he of all people could maybe make a difference…___Bodhi Rook is losing his mind to Bor Gullet, losing himself within strange scenarios that could only be hallucinations, right?But sometimes the craziest things make a lasting impression...





	

**Author's Note:**

> Somehow this mental image of Poe and Finn supporting a hurt Bodhi wouldn't leave me alone.  
> And I couldn't stop thinking about poor Bodhi and that completely unnecessary mind torture he was subjected to.  
> Somehow, those two mixed up and this is what came of it.
> 
> I hope you enjoy it!

He wakes up to the sound of groaning.

His own groaning, judging from the twinges of pain the grumbling sound elicits in his throat. Still raw from his desperate screams.

His head is killing him.

With yet another pathetic groan Bodhi tries to roll onto his side so that he can just curl up in misery. Pull his knees up and press his hands against his chest and just hope for the pain to subside.

But his body refuses to listen. His muscles are nothing more than an aching mass of jelly: numb and utterly useless. Which is still far better than his head. Where the jelly of his body at least has some form of cohesion his mind seems to have lost even that. His thoughts are nothing but pitiful, shipwrecked things, lost in the darkness and stuck in the gooey stuff that had once been a colorful mind full of ideas and opinions and knowledge and dreams and fears. But right now it is hard to even remember who he is, let alone thinking straight.

Or thinking at all.

Thinking hurt!

Another groan slips from his lips and his head sags a bit to the side.

There’s a pressure there, at his temples, the sides of his head. More the memory of pressure than anything tangible, and yet…

Without even knowing why his breathing comes faster all of a sudden.

And there’s more.

Pressure against his wrists, his arms, around his chest. Cold and unyielding.

Pressure against his temples and the sides of his face. Slick and rubbery. Making his stomach churn.

Pressure against his mind. Pushing deeper and deeper. Unrelenting and so, so cruel.

And he remembers.

All of it.

Bodhi gasps, unable to process the terror that his memories bring. But now that they’re back he can’t think of anything else. Even though it hurts. In more ways than one.

It had been a mistake to listen to Galen. A mistake to come to Saw Gerrera. A terrible, terrible mistake to think that the Resistance would keep him safe. That _he_ of all people could maybe make a difference…

Tears are stinging his eyes, pooling at the corners and slowly dripping down into his hair. He could still feel that monster rooting around in his mind, forcing himself into every crevice, prying and seeking and tearing and _looking_. But he was lying on the floor, so it had to be over, right?

 _Right_???

There’s something there. A noise. Breaking up and starting again. Undulating in strange patterns.

Voices. He can hear voices.

He doesn’t want to hear what Gerrera wants from him. And certainly not what orders he’s giving regarding his fate. He doesn’t want to know.

But he doesn’t want to die. Not like this.

He _needs_ to know.

And so he tries. Tries to concentrate on the voice, on the words, but his mind is too sluggish, too fractured to make sense of it.

Something touches his shoulder. For a horrible, _horrible_  second he’s not sure if it’s a hand or a tentacle. He flinches away, his muscles suddenly on his side again. Eager to get away. Away from the touch. Away from more pain.

He can’t take any more of it.

He can’t.

“Please! No more,” he pleads before he’s even aware that his lips are moving. “I’m telling the truth. You have to believe me! Please!” If the awfully slurred sounds that reach his ears are anything to go by then his begging is for naught, anyway. No one would be able to make any sense of the garbled jumble that leaves his lips.

Yet again he’s at their mercy. Or, more precisely, he’s _still_ at their mercy, only now they’d robbed him of his last chance at making his point – at _saving himself_ : his words. He almost chokes as desperation clamps down hard around his chest.

“Whoa, easy there! Just here to help.”

It takes a moment for the words to sink in.

Is it over? Do they believe him now? Are they done torturing him?

Bodhi wants to believe it, wants it to be over so badly, but he just cannot trust the sudden peace. Not after everything. And anyway, how could he trust someone who ties him to a chair to watch as his mind is ripped to pieces and then, afterwards, offers to help? As if they have nothing to do with the whole ordeal at all?

He forces his eyes open. It’s harder than it should be and the light hurts. Stings. He blinks against the pain, unwilling to give up, and after a few tries it gets better and the vague blotches of light and dark turn into the slightly blurry shapes of two men, kneeling on either side of him. They seem human. One guy in a light-brown shirt with really dark hair to his left and a dark-skinned guy in a brown leather jacket to his right. His head lolls to the side as he tries to shift his focus from one to the other. He’s pretty sure he hadn’t seen either of them before.

“Shit, you’re completely sloshed, huh? Well, I can’t hold it against you, buddy. It’s not every day that you get to celebrate blowing a giant Starkiller-formed whole into the First Order’s plan.”

“Maybe, but he took it not just ‘a little’ too far,” the black guy says, his rebuke clear as day from his tone alone.

Bodhi blinks again, hoping it would help him make sense of this, but of course it didn’t. He has no idea who they are or what they are talking about. Starkiller? Do they mean the weapon? But that’s a planetkiller, right? Not a starkiller. Or both?

Kriffing hell! What is _going on_ here?

Of course he doesn’t get any answers. And why would the universe grant a nobody with answers, huh? It never does.

But it grants him two men who actually seem like they want to help.

“Come on, lets get you in a bed!” The dark-haired smiles at him. Not one of the tight-lipped pseudo-polite smiles and none of the evil, nasty smiles that promise danger and pain either. It was an honest smile, curving his lips and lighting up his eyes and face.

Before Bodhi has time to think about it, though, the two men grab at his upper arms and pull him up into a sitting position. Slowly, to give him time to accommodate to the change. The world tilts anyway. Everything starts moving and his vision blurs again as streaks of color spin around him. The throbbing in his head gets worse, or just more prominent, he’s not sure exactly. White hot pain pierces through his temples, but only for a moment, then it subsides again. And he becomes aware of the hands. One pressed gently against his chest, another against his back, and two more on his shoulders. Keeping him in place. Grounding him.

“Hey, take it easy, okay. Just breathe.”

“Yeah, and please don’t puke, okay?”

He’s not sure which of them had said what, but it’s not important. Whoever they are they are kind to him and for the moment that’s all he cares about.

The throbbing ceases slowly to a dull ache that he can live with. The dizziness subsides mostly and his vision steadies again. Even the numbness seems to thaw away, allowing him control over his body again.

As he nods at them to signal that he is ready, he struggles to get his legs beneath him as they pull him up to his feet. He manages. More or less. He’s far from steady and without their solid bodies next to him, supporting him, he’d crash to the ground in the blink of an eye, but he can move his legs again. Can move his limbs and feel them again. Sore and trembling, but they’re there.

The world shifts again when they start moving, stepping slowly forward towards a blurry building on the other side of a hangar – no, not a hangar, an open landing site, no walls or roof – full of different ships and machinery and… _is that grass_?

There is no grass on Jedha! He should know, he grew up here.

He stumbles, the strong arms supporting him gone all of a sudden. His legs shake under the strain, his weak body fighting tooth and nail to keep him upright. So the moment he becomes aware of something dark and solid looking right in front of him he reaches out, blinking hectically against the dizziness that threatens to overcome him again without something to steady him. He expects to grasp at one of his earlier helpers who – surprise – had obviously only toyed with him, but his fingers connect with something rough and hard.

A tree.

_A tree!!!_

That’s not possible. _There are no kriffing trees on Jedha!_

Bodhi screws his eyes shut. The coarse roughness beneath his fingertips doesn’t change. And the tree is still there when he opens his eyes again. It’s not the only tree either. There are trees everywhere. Trees and bushes and thick undergrowth. He stares with wide eyes as his breath hitches.

“What’s happening?”

He doesn’t expect an answer. And he doesn’t get one.

Something’s cracking up ahead. The moment he looks in the direction of the noise white armor becomes visible between all that green and four stormtroopers step into his line of vision.

His legs buckle and next thing he knows he’s on the ground, cowering against the massive trunk of the tree, hidden from sight by a mossy rock and a low hanging branch. He’s not sure if falling down and hiding had been a conscious act, pushed into life by his survival instinct, or if his legs had finally given out on him after too much strain. Right now he doesn’t care. At all. Right now he only cares about concealing his frantic breathing by pressing his mouth and nose against his wrist, stifling the sound in the fabric of his uniform. His heart is thumping so hard against his chest he is sure it will give him away.

They can’t find him! If they do… no, he doesn’t want to think about it. The Empire isn’t known for its kindness to defectors – or anyone who stands against them in any way.

His hands are shaking as he listens for their footsteps – or any indication to their whereabouts. They’re not closing in on him as far as he can tell.

His eyes fall shut on their own accord. In relief. In pain. Pulsing through his head, spurred on by every desperate thump of his heart, by every frantic gasp for breath.

He needs to get out of here. He needs to _think_ but he can’t. Not with this squeezing pressure around his head. Not with stormtroopers hot on his heels.

Where is he?

Where did the two guys go? And who have they been?

Why isn’t he back with Saw Gerrera and his pet monster?

Oh shit, is… is that thing still in his mind? Driving him crazy?

His eyes shoot open at the horrific thought and he bit down hard on his wrist to keep himself from making any kind of sound, unsure if it’s a gasp or a cry that’s fighting against his throat for release.

That’s when he sees it. Between the treetops, looming in the sky. It almost looks like a moon. Almost.

But it isn’t.

His stomach drops.

It’s the weapon. Still in construction and yet it’s already _monstrous_. Big and threatening and it can’t be long now until it’s ready for a test. And they _will_ use it, he’s sure of that. The Empire has no scruples. Not when it comes to people opposing them, or people that have something they need. It’s the reason he’d been thinking about running for years now, always too afraid to actually do it. Until Galen nudged him in the right direction and gave him the best reason of them all: a weapon of unimaginable mass destruction. He’d still been scared shitless as he’d turned his back on his former employer but a weapon like _that_? They have to be stopped, right?

He’d thought he could be brave for that.

He’s not so sure about that anymore.

A blaster shot hisses past all of a sudden and way too close for his liking. After that all hell brakes loose. Shots fill the air, followed by shouts from seemingly all around. There are screams and more rustling from people running through the thick undergrowth.

Bodhi presses even tighter against the tree, shaking like a leaf. How did he get right in the middle of a war zone?

_Get up and run!_

He wants to. He wants nothing more than to get out of here and for this craziness to stop. But each shout, each blaster explosion only feeds the agony in his head and he can do nothing more than tremble in pain and fear and confusion, hoping his meager cover of branches and leaves and a single mossy rock will be enough to keep him alive.

Something impacts close to him. Way too close. Splinters of bark reign down all around him and he quickly covers his head with his hands, squeezing his eyes shut as if he can somehow escape that way.

The ground sways beneath him, tilting softly one way and then another.

Bodhi tenses. He doesn’t dare breathing.

That’s not possible.

He knows that feeling, that soft swaying beneath his body, the barely noticeable vibrations of the ground that soothe him even though the whole situation is starting to seriously freak him out.

This isn’t an earthquake or the result of an explosion or him losing consciousness and tumbling to the ground. This movement beneath him… it’s from a spaceship.

But that’s impossible.

It makes no sense.

And yet he’s dead sure about it. He’s spent most of his adult life in space. He’s a _pilot_ after all, of course he knows these swaying motions. They’re his life. They give him comfort, maybe even a tiny bit of confidence and they allow him to make a living.

Allowed. Past tense. He’d signed in his resignation in a rather spectacular way. Not at all what he would’ve imagined for himself a year – or even a month – ago.

Something growls, deep and rumbling with a long whining sound in the middle.

Bodhi freezes immediately.

“Yeah, I know it’s big. Of course it’s big! Now stop fussing, this was _your_ idea! Check the sensors, do you see Luke anywhere?”

The voice is male and it doesn’t belong to one of the guys who’d helped him earlier. Slowly he lowers his hands and opens his eyes. His head is so kriffing heavy as if the dull throbbing and the bright flares of white-hot pain that attack him from time to time are weighing it down somehow. He sees enough to know that he _is_ in a spaceship. Old, worn down durasteel plating to his feet and behind his back, holding him upright. A set of pilot’s seats that have seen better days.

And two sets of feet. One clad in dark boots the other adorned with thick brown fur.

Bodhi doesn’t understand. There’s no way he could be on a spaceship all of a sudden. And yet he is. Fighting against gravity – and grimacing with the pain – he lifts his head. And looks directly at the backs of two pilots. One seems human, the other one is a Wookie.

His breath hitches and he can feel the frantic thumping of his heart echo in his neck, his belly, his ears. He has heard lots of stories about Wookies and what they’re capable off if you anger them, but that’s not what’s frightening him.

It’s the weapon. Filling out the complete windshield of the ship’s cockpit.

It’s massive.

And complete.

How can it be complete all of a sudden?

His mouth goes slack and he can feel it drop open, but he doesn’t care. Instead he grabs for the wall next to him and behind him and he pulls and pushes and wills his body to obey. His muscles protest and his head is swimming but with a final grunt he manages to get to his feet, although he has to cling to the wall to keep from tumbling back down.

Another growl and then, “Ey pal! How did you get on board?”

The pilot is indeed human, but Bodhi doesn’t care, doesn’t even look at him. His eyes are glued to the weapon, the planetkiller, hanging in space as if it’s a kriffing planet itself.

“You picked the wrong ship to take a nap, buddy. Better hold on, this won’t be a walk in the park!”

The ship speeds closer and closer and as the Wookie grunts and points he can spot a few moving points right at the trench that seems to run the – equator? – of that thing. Judging from the exhilarated shouts of the pilot they’re rebel X-wings, the ones they’ve been looking for. But they’re closely trailed by a group of TIE fighters.

His hands slip from the wall, sweaty and shaking, and he has to grip harder, lean his back heavier into the wall to keep from sliding down. His heart sinks.

They have no chance. None of them has. Not against _this_.

A handful of tiny ships against a weapon the size of a planet???

His eyes flick over the grey durasteel of the planetkiller, take in all the tiny lights that look like alarm lights on consoles from this distance but he knows they are probably view ports, maybe even hangars. It’s giant and threatening and there’s no chance at all of winning against a power like that. Galen was a fool. Blueprints or not, what chance does the Alliance have against something like _this_?

They’ll lose.

The whole galaxy will lose.

And he had helped building it. His cargo now part of a machinery of mass destruction.

His vision gets blurry and he blinks. His chest is heaving with shallow breaths.

He’s going to die.

In a desperate, stupid, utterly impulsive attempt to stop what he involuntarily had helped create.

There’s shouting all of a sudden. Whoops of joy and laughter.

The ship tilts precariously to the side, angling away from the weapon in a hairpin bend. He stumbles, clutches to the wall and every crevice he can get his fingers into to give him some leverage. Then a light flashes, lighting up space at the periphery of the windshield.

It takes a moment for him to realize, but when he does his mouth drops open and the pain in his head is forgotten. Dimly he’s aware of the shouts of victory from the pilots and other voices over the comm.-channel.

His eyes are fixed on the bright light, the fires of explosion that quickly die as the oxygen is gone. His gaze follows the junks of debris spewed into the darkness of space out of a white-grey plume of destruction.

It is gone.

The weapon is gone.

Destroyed.

_Destroyed!!!_

And Bodhi stares. And stares.

Black spots creep up on him from the periphery and his left leg buckles. He compensates, but barely. His muscles shake, tremble with exhaustion and relief and _disbelief_. He lets his head sink forward against his chest and closes his eyes, only concentrating on taking a deep, shuddering breath. It feels almost like a sob.

On instinct he lifts his hand, wipes over his face, over the wetness around his eyes and cradles his head as the pain hits him again. He sways, the world around him tilting, and the movements of the ship beneath him turn from soothing to disorienting rather quickly.

His legs give in but suddenly there are strong hands around his middle and his arms are held securely across two sets of shoulders, keeping him upright.

“Easy buddy!”

He knows that voice.

A few deep breaths later the spinning stops, leaving him weak and queasy and more confused than ever as he opens his eyes to find the two men from earlier next to him. And they’re walking through something that looks like a base.

Where’s the ship?

What about the destruction of the weapon?

What…?

“What’s going on?” His voice sounds rough and feeble, but less slurred than last time.

“You partied too much,” said the black guy to his right. He’s sturdy and although he doesn’t seem overly pleased with the situation his grip on him is secure and gentle. Reassuring.

Party? What party?

“We’re taking you back to the barracks. Better to sleep it off in a bed than crumpled between crates and supplies, don’t you think?” This time it was the dark-haired guy to his left, the one with the easy smile. “I’m Poe, by the way. And that’s Finn. What’s your name, buddy? That is, if you even remember it…” He laughs, but it doesn’t feel judging or condescending.

His head is pounding from all the moving about.

_No! From the tentacle monster!_

_From getting his mind ripped to shreds!_

He’d almost forgotten about that.

His mind is reeling. Overwhelmed with the constant changes, with all the hopping from situation to situation that makes no sense and can’t be real – _tentacle monster, Bodhi! You’re going crazy!_ – and the things he’d seen. The destruction of the planetkiller.

It can be done.

It _can_ be done.

Or is it just wishful thinking? A last rebellion of his optimism against the invading terror and coldness of torture?

He stumbles and the pressure of arms around him reminds him of the two men. And the question. He licks his lips – they’re dry, cracking – and lifts his head a little bit to get a better look at… Poe. His name is Poe, he remembers.

“I think he’s too out of it to know where is up and down, let alone his name,” the other guy – Finn – says.

“Bodhi. My name’s… Bodhi.”

“Wow.” Poe’s eyes grow big and there’s something else to his smile now. Something reverent. “Named after a hero, huh? Even got a matching uniform. Wonder where you got that from.”

What? It’s _his_ uniform. He got it for work.

And hero? What hero?

He doesn’t understand. He’s named after no one. His mother liked the name, at least that’s what she told him. But Bodhi suspects that she chose that name because she had hoped for him to become something… _more_.

Finn’s surprised outcry pulls him out of his thoughts. “That’s an old imperial uniform!”

Poe chuckles. “Sure. It fits. Bodhi was an imperial cargo pilot. He defected to warn the Alliance of the Death Star.”

He’s not sure he’s heard that right.

What’s going on here? Something is strange. Not right.

He knows. He can feel it. But he can’t grasp it, can’t seem to figure it out.

That guy describes him. _Him!_ But hero? No. He’s a coward. Nothing but a frightened guy who’d thought he can be brave enough to do the right thing but he isn’t. And ever since he tried anyway the world has turned mad. He wants to go back to how it was before, but at the same time he knows that he can’t. Not after everything he’s seen. Everything he’s experienced.

He can’t go back.

But he’s terrified of going forward.

And what’s with the ‘named after’? It makes no sense. And he knows he should be able to piece it all together, to figure it out. He’s not stupid, but his head is swimming with dizziness and pain and confusion, his thoughts are fractured and his body hurts in ways he’s never experienced before in his life and it’s so kriffing hard to concentrate.

Poe’s talking again, a slightly teasing note to his voice. “Come on, Finn, you didn’t think you’re the first one to see those assholes for the egomaniacal madmen without any regard for morals that they are? No matter if Empire or First Order. There have always been some who defected, who tried to get away with it by hiding. A few of them joined the Alliance or now the Resistance. But hey, you’ll always be the first stormtrooper who can say he turned against them!”

Wait…

“What?” Bodhi croaks, looking again at the man to his right. “You’re a trooper?” His surprise is clear even in the weak mumble of his words. He doesn’t look like a stormtrooper.

And yet, how would he know. He’s never seen a trooper without his armor.

He stumbles again, one of his legs buckling, and he’s falling. His support suddenly gone.

_Not again! Don’t go, please!_

He reaches out to break his fall, prepares for the jolting pain in his knees, his wrists, for the burning strain on his muscles, trying to keep him from crashing face first into the ground. But it never comes.

Darkness creeps into his mind and if he does hit the ground he never feels it.

 

* * *

 

He wakes to pain in his right arm, if you can call it ‘waking up’ when your eyes have already been open. Something was gripping him hard enough to bruise. Wrapping around him, slithering, squeezing… images of a giant creature, robbing through the sand, pop into his mind. Images of slimy tentacles…

His mind pulls back, hurting. Afraid. Pulls back into the numbness that cushions the frail remnants of his very being against the harsh reality.

Then it is gone. The bruising grip. The tugging.

Carefully he pulls his arm back, holds it against his chest, wrapping it around himself just like another layer of protection.

There are voices. He wants to block them out as well, wants to hide completely again in the numbness, wants to vanish and forget, but they get louder instead. Clearer. Until one stands out. It’s soft. Curious. Imploring. And so close.

_Are you the pilot?_

_Hey, are you the pilot?_

_The shuttle pilot?_

There’s one word, repeated over and over. A word that scratches at the numbness. A word that _means_ something. And he feels his lips moving. Sluggish and stiff.

“Pilot?” he repeats. His own voice foreign to his ears.

There’s another voice. Farther away. Not important, not…

“Galen Erso? You know that name?”

Galen Erso. That name pierces right through the numbness down to the fragile pieces of his mind that still desperately cling to one another, still afraid of losing even more. But that name is important.

And as the numbness recedes he starts to get aware, starts to _remember_.

“I delivered the message.”

There’s sand on the ground and a wall at his back. He’s alone. In a small cell. Imprisoned. But they left him alone after all and his surroundings make sense again. This is Jedha. He’s with Saw Gerrera and his… but it’s over.

And he’s alive. He’s still alive!

And not alone, no, not alone. There are voices. And he remembers the questions, distorted through the fog of his awareness but he remembers it.

“I’m the pilot.”

He turns his head. There’s someone in the adjacent cell, looking at him.

And Bodhi repeats himself. “I’m the pilot. I’m the pilot.” Not for the other man. For himself. Each repetition clears his head further, lets him remember who he is and why he is here. Each repetition gives him something of himself back, mending some of the wounds of his tortured mind in the process.

He blinks as if to clear his vision and for the first time he _really_ sees the man in front of him, pressed against the bars that separated their cells, one of his arms reaching towards Bodhi. Reaching but not touching.

He only has eyes for the dark, slightly unruly hair and those dark eyes that looked at him. Friendly. Hopeful. Worried. Just like…

“Poe?”

A frown. “No, I’m Cassian.”

“Oh. Okay.” Bodhi shook his head to clear it some more, but only managed to make himself dizzy again.

“Now, where’s Galen Erso?”

 

* * *

  

He’s still confused, unsure what to make out of the men in the next cell who seem to be rebel fighters – isn’t Gerrera supposed to be one too? So why imprison his colleagues? Are there different factions? Is there more to this whole rebellion thing than he realizes?

At least his surroundings make sense again. No grass and no trees, but a cell, Gerrera’s men and Jedha stone and sand. His headache is gone, there is only the slight stiffness in his muscles and the lingering feeling of pressure against his temples left to remind him of his ordeal. He can almost pretend it never happened.

But then the ground shakes and he just _knows_ that something bad is happening. Something really bad. And big.

It doesn’t take long for total chaos to erupt.

Before he knows what’s going on the others escape and the big, grim looking one is aiming a giant weapon at him and he’s sure that’s it. He’s going to die. But he’s freed instead and then running and the shaking gets worse, a deep rumbling as if the planet itself is groaning.

The moment he spots the explosion, the plumes of heat and rock shooting into the sky, the giant shockwave of destruction rolling towards him, he knows that it’s the weapon that did this. The weapon he came here to warn them about.

He realizes it – _knows_ it – even before he’s able to comprehend that it’s Jedha City that’s been destroyed. _His home!!!_

There’s a hand on his shoulder, urging him on – Cassian – and he’s running, his heart racing with terror and fear and utter disbelief. Even inside the ship his gaze is drawn to the destruction outside, shaking with comprehension of what that weapon could _do_. Gasping with the pain that his home was gone. Gone forever. Eradicated in the blink of an eye.

And for what?

 

* * *

 

Bodhi can’t believe it.

They are arguing. How can there even _be_ an argument? It should be clear what to do. But more and more people – senators? Generals? – vote for caution, for waiting, for _surrender_.

This cannot be happening, not after everything…

Being tortured. Losing Galen. Watching his home turn into dust and fire.

But they weren’t _there_ , they never saw what this weapon can do.

And they don’t trust him. Or Jyn. The word of a defector and the daughter of an Imperial scientist. A tiny part of him wonders if that defected stormtrooper ever had the same problem. He shakes his head. This is neither the time nor the place to ponder any of that.

Instead he follows Jyn as she storms out.

Everything had happened so fast, erupted into a whirlwind of chaos from the moment he was freed from his cell up until now. The destruction of Jedha, Galen’s message, Cassian’s betrayal and his change of heart, the Alliance’ attack on the facility on Eadu, Galen’s death. He’d been thrown right into this mess that is so much bigger than him, struggling all the way, far more than the others. Also, it had taken him far longer than he cared to admit to realize that they weren’t actually a team but a ragtag bunch of people, thrown together by coincidence – or the Force as Chirrut would claim most certainly.

There had been no time to _think_ at all. No time to comprehend the things he’d seen or done. Or experienced.

The only things that have stayed with him throughout it all, playing out within his mind’s eye again and again if he wanted to or not, are the eruption of stone and fire where Jedha City had been once and the bright explosion in the periphery of a windshield.

“You don’t look happy.”

“They prefer to surrender.”

He can hear the disgust in Jyn’s voice as well as her anger.

Chirrut slightly cocks his head in her direction, his hands readjusting their grip on his staff. “And you?”

“She wants to fight,” Baze snorts, leaning against a ship right behind Chirrut.

“So do I,” Bodhi suddenly hears himself say. “We all do.”

It’s true and yet he still wonders when this has happened. When had he found this kind of determination along the way? But it isn’t important right now.

He wants to fight, because they _need_ to fight. Without those plans there is no chance at all against the Death Star and the Empire and he can’t stand by and watch as other cities or planets are wiped out like his own home.

 

* * *

  

They take the stolen shuttle from Eadu, only this time they _are_ a team. He can feel it. He’s part of something, more than ever before in his life and even though he’s scared shitless, deep down, he wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. This is where he belongs.

“But what if we fail?” he hears one of the rebel fighters ask in a low voice as he’s down to check a power fluctuation in one of the power lines.

“We won’t.”

The others stare at him, surprised by how certain he sounds – or maybe that it’s _him_ and not Chirrut, who’s displaying so much faith in them all.

“How can you be so sure?” Cassian asks and he’s looking at Bodhi as if he’s seeing him in a completely new light all of a sudden. Somehow, Cassian reminds him of Poe in that moment.

And Bodhi grins. “Because I know it.” _Because I’ve seen it._ But he doesn’t say it. They wouldn’t understand. He’s not exactly sure if _he_ does.

He doesn’t care if it’s been a vision or a dream or a hallucination, spun by his mind to escape the torture, he doesn’t care if it’s real or not, he _has_ seen the Death Star explode. He _has_ seen a tiny group of X-wings being victorious against that behemoth.

And he chooses to believe in that.

He chooses to believe that it’s possible and that it will be done. And if it will be done then that means they will succeed with their mission here today.

They will get those plans to the Alliance.

One way or another.

And lay the foundation for the future.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I left it open what truly happened with Bodhi.  
> It's not really important for the story, just that he takes what he needs from what he's seen.  
> But in case anyone's desperately interested in what I thought happened... you may have it:  
> I choose to believe that Bodhi - at least for this story - is force-sensitive, if only just a tiny little bit. He has no idea, though. So, when his mind was opened up and torn apart and bared that part was bared as well, pushed to the surface and led to a vision. The Force showed him what he needed to see to find his way.  
> You don't have to agree, but that's my explanation ;)
> 
> So, I hope you enjoyed it, delving a little deeper into Bodhi's mind.
> 
> Thanks for reading! And if you want to share your thoughts and opinions... I'd love to hear them :D


End file.
